When tensions rise and borders harden, artists feel it in their bones. The body holds onto dread in ways that language can’t always express. The air gets heavier. Small acts begin to feel fragile. Even the brushstroke and shutter click falters under the weight of headlines.
A war—real or looming—frays more than nerves. It frays trust. It sharpens identities until they cut. Suddenly, everything is either-for-or-against. No space left for ambiguity. No room for nuance. And that’s where artists begin to suffocate.
But this is also where they must hold their ground.
In times like these, making art is not escape. It’s resistance. Not grand, not loud—just quietly defiant. Painting, composing, filming, stitching, listening. Staying with the work when the world wants you to take sides, speak louder, or disappear.
Balance doesn’t come from detachment. It comes from staying rooted. In practice. In integrity. In grief, even. Because when the dominant voices get shrill, the artist’s job is not to outshout them—but to offer a different frequency. One that allows for pause. For doubt. For remembering that the person on the other side of a border is still a person.